When the Sea Turned to Silver Read online

Pinmei stood and cried. Was that scorched mass in the corner her bed? And was that crumbling mound of cinders all that was left of her clothes? Her tears flowed and flowed as if they were still trying to extinguish the ­already-­departed flames, and the freezing wind wrapped around her. Yishan stood behind, awkwardly patting her arm.

  “It’s not that bad,” he said unconvincingly. “I’ll look around.”

  Pinmei said nothing and found herself staring at the old gang, blackened where flames had licked it. Had it only been last night? She could still feel Amah’s gentle hand on her head, the soft weight of it anchoring her. ­Pinmei tried to wipe away her tears.

  “I found something,” Yishan said, his voice startling her. “Look!”

  Pinmei ran to him, standing in what used to be Amah’s room. He was bending over a box, burned almost beyond recognition. The cover fell to pieces as he held it up, but inside was something Pinmei had never seen before. It was a quilted jacket made of hundreds of ­different-­colored patches. The colors were so vivid in the bleakness of the ruins that the jacket seemed to glow. As Pinmei reached to take it, something fell from its sleeve. Both Pinmei and Yishan stared at the green circle in the snow. It was a jade bracelet.

  CHAPTER

  10

  His eyes were closed. Every time he opened them, there was a brightness so dazzling his eyes felt as if needles were pricking them.

  What had happened? He had been floating lazily in the Lake of Heavens. The black water was lapping against his giant shell, and the twinkling fishes were swimming around him.

  Then, from nowhere, he was thrust into the water. Down he plunged, deeper and deeper. He had screeched and thrashed, but no matter how he struggled, he was forced downward. The water thinned. His arms and legs lashed out, but his claws were as useless as knots of thread. The glaring color poured around him.

  What was this place?

  He forced his eyes to stay open, making them adjust to the brightness.

  Gold.

  All he saw was the color gold. A garish, dazzling gold that gleamed and flashed.

  He winced and tried to move away, but his arms and legs shoved only silken air. It was then that he felt the heaviness on his back. Something was holding him down!

  Was he a prisoner?

  CHAPTER

  11

  Amah’s limbs ached with weariness. Bound and flanked by the iron arms of a soldier, she wasn’t used to the jerking motion of a galloping horse, and now that they had stopped, she felt her arms and legs tremble. Yet, despite their curtness, the soldiers, surprisingly, had not been rough with her. They were kinder to her than they were to the long line of chained men staggering together. Those prisoners had been yelled at and whipped mercilessly, and Amah would have wept if she were not so horrified.

  A soldier lifted her off the horse. “Come, Storyteller,” he said. “We are stopping for the night.”

  Soon she found herself alone in a tent. A luxury, she realized, when compared with the soldiers crowded in their shared tents or the prisoners left to huddle together without shelter. She shivered for them, listening to their moans and cries. Quietly, another soldier entered with a small torch, unbound her hands, and offered her a cake.

  “Eat,” the soldier said.

  Amah looked and saw it was a ­half-­eaten portion of a soldier’s ration. It was his own food he was sharing. “You are kind to remember me,” she said as she took it.

  “You are the Storyteller,” he replied as if answering a question. After she had finished eating, he tied her hands again almost with reluctance.

  Another soldier burst into the tent. He was in green, and was older and larger than any of the other soldiers.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked the first soldier, a menacing, low roar beginning to sound in his throat.

  “He was the only one who answered me,” Amah said, trying her best to sound like a petulant child. “Do you plan to starve an old woman?”

  The soldier in green looked at Amah, and a shock ran through her. Eyes full of anger and power, almost to madness… Where had she seen eyes like that before?

  “I will take care of her,” he said to the other soldier. “Leave.”

  When the soldier left, the man in green took off his helmet. He looked at Amah closely, his eyes boring into her face as if searching. She looked back at him, the rigid tilt of his head telling her it rarely bowed.

  “You are not just a soldier,” Amah said to him. The roar of his voice echoed in her ears, calling up a strange fear she had not felt since she was a child.

  “And you are not just an old woman,” he spat back. “Everyone knows you! Every corner of this land has heard a tale you have whispered. Even now, the men outside wish they could sit like small children at your feet!”

  The tent flapped open, and the low melancholy moan of the wind blew tiny snowflakes, like silver seeds, over Amah.

  “What do you wish from me?” Amah said. She spoke slowly and carefully, swallowing to hide her dread.

  “What does one always want from the Storyteller?” The man laughed with harshness. “A story, of course. Tell me the Story of the Ginseng Boy.”

  The Story of the Ginseng Boy? Amah swallowed her gasp of surprise. She would never forget when she had told it last. Auntie Meiya had requested that story; now it seemed so long ago. Amah closed her eyes, remembering.

  “Tell me the Story of the Ginseng Boy,” Auntie Meiya said.

  She was lying in bed, smiling, and her many wrinkles could not hide the light in her eyes. But the hand she laid in Amah’s was weak and almost transparent.

  “It’s the last story I wish to hear before I die,” Auntie Meiya said. She looked at Pinmei and Yishan, also standing by her bed. “When you are as old as me, you are just happy you have friends to say goodbye to.”

  “But…” Yishan protested. “But…”

  “Yishan,” Auntie Meiya said, her smile melting away as she looked at him. “It is time. You are young and you will grow older every day. I will see my parents and old friends who have been gone from my life for so long. I will miss you, but it is time to end our string.”

  Yishan bowed his head.

  “Please,” Meiya said to Amah. “Tell me the story.”

  A long time ago, a little girl was sent away to live with an old aunt and uncle at the foot of a mountain. She had loved her small village. There had been green fields, a lake with a happy, joyful fish, and friends and parents. Here, there was only gray rock, a shadowy forest, and two old people. While the old people were not unkind, they were not interested in the ­girl—­they spent most of their time telling her to hush or to leave them alone.

  However, even the most lax of guardians could not help but notice when the girl began to eagerly leave the house. Every once in a while, when the old people looked up from their checkers game, they thought they could hear faint peals of laughter. So one morning, as the girl was rushing out the door, the aunt stopped her.

  “Where are you going?” the old woman asked.

  “I’m going to play!” the girl said, eager to leave.

  “There’s no one around here for miles,” the aunt said. “A little girl like you can’t play by herself all day.”

  “I don’t,” the girl said. “I have a friend!”

  “A friend?” the uncle asked. “What friend?”

  “A boy,” the girl said. “He wears a red hat.”

  “A red hat?” the aunt said, and in her wonder she loosened her hold on the girl, who quickly slipped away. As the girl’s figure disappeared, the two old people looked at each other.

  “Did you hear that, old man?” the woman said, drops of spit sputtering from her mouth with her words. “A boy, a red hat? Here?”

  “Could it be the Ginseng Boy?” the man replied, licking his lips as if hungry.

  “Be patient,” the woman scolded. “We have to wait for the night of the red moon.”

  The old people said nothing, allowing the little girl to do as she
pleased. They watched the moon carefully and calculated calendar days with more fervor than when they added up their gambling tabs. Finally, one day, they cautiously followed the little girl as she left. From a distance, they watched as she rounded the house. Then a little boy appeared. He was dressed in bright red from head to foot.

  “It is the Ginseng Boy!” the man said.

  “Shhh!” the woman said angrily. “Keep quiet!”

  The two children played for quite a while, climbing trees and drawing in the dirt. Finally, at noon, they sat against a tree and fell asleep together.

  “Now!” the woman hissed.

  The two old people crept forward silently. With a small knife, the old woman cut a sleeve of the boy’s shirt and pulled a delicate red thread. The old man tied it tightly to a low branch of a bush. They nodded to each other and, just as silently as before, departed.

  That night, the moon shone ­blood red and the old man and his wife left the house, each with a lantern and a spade. With much stumbling, they found the string tied to the branch and began to follow ­it—­around trees, over rocks, through bushes, until, at last, at the foot of the mountain, the thread went right into the ground. With great haste, the old people began to dig.

  “Here!” the man said, stopping his frenzied digging. He held his lantern and stared. In the hole was a large root shaped like a child. The thread led to a piece of cloth wrapped around one of the arms of the ­root—­the remaining part of the boy’s unraveled shirt.

  “It is the Ginseng Boy!” the woman hissed.

  They dropped their spades in a clatter, grabbed the root, and hurried home. They rushed into the house with such glee it woke up the small girl. Having never heard such delighted noises from her relatives before, the girl got out of bed and was astonished to see her old aunt and uncle dancing with firewood around a large pot.

  “What are you going to cook?” the girl asked.

  “Come look!” the uncle said, laughing.

  He took the lid off the pot as the girl looked in.

  “It’s just a root,” the girl said, confused.

  “Ha-ha!” the uncle gloated. “You don’t recognize your little friend, do you? That is because we caught him when he was completely helpless! On the night when he must turn into a root!”

  “It’s the Ginseng Boy, and we’re going to cook and eat it!” the aunt said. “And then your uncle and I will be young again!”

  The girl began to cry, but the old people did not notice.

  “I will be young again!” the uncle repeated, then stopped. Eating part of the root will only make me younger, he thought. If I eat the whole thing, I would not only be young, but live forever too.

  The aunt didn’t notice her husband’s silence, for she was thinking the same thing. Why share the root? she thought. I might only get a hundred more years. But if I eat all of it, I would never die.

  “Husband,” the old woman said slyly, “the root must boil all day before we can eat it, and the water has not even warmed yet. Your parents live only an hour’s walk west of here. Why don’t you go and get them to share in our fortune? There’ll be plenty for all.”

  “Dear wife,” the man said. “I was just thinking the same about your parents! They are only an hour east of here. Why don’t you go and get them?”

  Slowly, both old people edged toward the door, each encouraging the other to leave. As the sun began to rise, they reluctantly parted ­ways, both constantly looking over their shoulders to check on each other.

  Neither one, of course, gave a second thought to their little niece. However, as soon as they left the house, the girl wiped her eyes and stuck out her chin. She put out the fire and took the lid off the heavy pot. As the light of the sun streamed into the pot, the boy sat up and quickly jumped to the floor, dripping.

  Just then, loud voices and the thumping of running footsteps were heard outside the door.

  “Why are you rushing back?” the old man’s voice said. “Where are your parents?”

  “I wanted to make sure there was enough wood!” the woman said. “Where are your parents?”

  “I wanted to make sure the door was locked!” the man said. “Let me help you with the wood!”

  The door was flung open, and the old people and the children stared at one another.

  “Quick!” the little girl said, and grabbing the boy’s hand, they rushed past the aunt and uncle and out the door. With a scream, the woman swung a wooden log at them but instead hit her husband in the head. He, in turn, dropped his wood on her feet. Both fell to the ground, cradling their injured parts and cursing each other.

  And what of their niece and the Ginseng Boy? They ran far, far away and were never heard from again.

  “Thank you,” Auntie Meiya said. She smiled again, but this time her smile was tired and her eyes dimmed.

  “The little girl did her aunt and uncle a favor,” Auntie Meiya said slowly, her eyes closing. “They would have been miserable immortals.”

  “Ah, but it’s a difficult thing to refuse immortality,” Amah said, beckoning to Yishan. He sat next to Meiya’s bed and placed his hand in hers.

  “It shouldn’t be,” Auntie Meiya said, her words even slower, as if she were speaking through water. With one last effort, she opened her eyes and looked at Yishan. “That kind of immortality is not for us humans. It would just drive us mad.”

  Auntie Meiya closed her eyes for the final time. Amah put her hand on Yishan’s shoulder, and he bowed his head.

  “Old woman!” the man said with impatience. “Did you hear me? Tell me the Story of the Ginseng Boy!”

  Amah opened her eyes and looked into his face, startled again by the brutality in his black eyes.

  “No,” she said. Her heart beat as quickly as a battle drum, but she knew she had no other answer.

  “No?” the man roared, his face so distorted with anger he looked more like an animal than a man, his teeth glittering in the flickering torchlight.

  “No,” Amah repeated. “You obviously already know it.”

  She watched him clench and unclench his fists, fighting the anger that wanted to explode inside ­him—­an anger so intense that she knew he was rarely denied.

  “You! You stupid old woman!” he finally sputtered. “I will deal with you later!”

  He glared, shoved his helmet on his head, and stormed out of the tent. Amah stared at the forceful figure, powerful even as it disappeared into shadow.

  “Until then,” she whispered, “Your Exalted Majesty.”

  CHAPTER

  12

  Darkness was settling by the time they reached the bottom of the mountain, so Yishan suggested that they find shelter for the night in the village. Pinmei had not seen the village in a long time, but she knew it was not supposed to be as she was seeing it now. The silence of the street was cold, colder than the muffled quiet of winter. The few people there hardly glanced at them, and, slowly, Pinmei realized none of them smiled.

  “No men,” Yishan said, more to himself than to ­Pinmei. “Only women, children… and there’s an old grandmother over there. Did Amah really know something? Why her?”

  Of course, Pinmei thought, feeling foolish. The emperor had been through here. The wooden door of the house in front of her was smashed to pieces and the stones lying at her feet were from a destroyed wall. The ­silver-­gray dust being thrown in the air by the wind was not snow, but ash.

  “Excuse me,” Yishan said to a woman sweeping up broken tiles. “We’re from up the mountain, and we’re on our way to the City of Bright Moonlight. Do you know where we could stay the night?”

  The woman stared at them as if looking through thick ice. She shook her head and, without a word, went back into her house.

  Yishan made the request again and again, and the response was the same each time. Even the young children, some of whom Pinmei recognized from her past visits, were strangely silent, gaping at them with hollowed eyes.

  Finally, an old man spoke to them. “You
had better come to my house,” he said, sighing. “After the visit from the emperor’s soldiers, no one else in this village has any hospitality left.”

  He led the way down the winding street to a humble stone house, the grayed wooden door cracked and warped. A woman, her hair tightly knotted, stopped gluing paper on the broken windows to look at them.

  “Children?” the woman said in dismay. “Old Sai, I send you for firewood and you come back with children?”

  “We just want a place to sleep for the night,” Yishan spoke quickly. “We aren’t staying.”

  “A place is easy,” the woman said with bitterness. “There are all the men’s empty beds in this village. And empty horse stalls, pigpens, and chicken houses! The emperor’s men took everything and left the villagers shells for their tears.”

  “Come, Suya,” said Old Sai. “We are the luckiest people in the village right now. Could you have said that two days ago? This too may become a blessing.”

  The woman sighed again and waved them in, the ripped paper of the window flapping with more vigor than her hand. Pinmei and Yishan stepped through the doorway, the stone walls protecting them from the wind even as the cold seeped through the lattice windows.

  “Auntie Suya! Old Sai!” a voice called from behind a plain wood screen. “Who’s there?”

  It was a man’s voice. Curious, Pinmei and Yishan peeked around the screen. There, lying in bed, was a young man, obviously injured. As Pinmei came closer, she could see he was more of a boy than a man, perhaps only a handful of years older than Yishan.

  “Hello,” he said as he motioned them closer. His black eyes burned in the paleness of his face, and both of his legs were wrapped in bandages. But it was the tightness of his jaw that told of his constant pain.

  “Did the soldiers do this to you?” Yishan asked.

  “No,” the man said, “though I have no doubt they could have easily. I watched them take Feng Fu, the mightiest man in the village. Feng swung an ax at a soldier, and it bounced right off the soldier’s green sleeve as if it were a pebble hitting a turtle shell.”